By Strappeddown

They came for me in the middle of the night. I didn’t believe it would happen. I couldn’t believe that this was real. It happened so fast. Someone shouted orders, and the lights flipped on, arousing me from a deep sleep. I was groggy and confused, blinded by the sudden brightness, and overcome with a rush of fear induced adrenaline as I realized they were coming for me.

They wore identical black uniforms, like a police SWAT team. Their faces were covered with hoods and goggles, and their torsos were thick and padded with riot gear. In the time it took me to open my eyes and sit up, they had surrounded my bed. I was slow to think. I didn’t react. I just sat there in disbelief. I could feel my heart beat, like it would burst from my chest. THUMP…THUMP…THUMP. I tried to cry out, perhaps to scream, but I somehow couldn’t vocalize, nothing would come out.

Then they were on the bed with me, their bulky gear engulfing me. They were close enough for me to see their eyes through their goggles. Their gloved hands grasped my ankles and knees and arms and shoulders and I was pushed down into the mattress.

“One Secured,” I heard one of them say, and then the others followed: “Two.” “Three.” “Four.”

Then everything stopped and was quiet. I realized I hadn’t taken a breath … that is why I couldn’t yell out. I gasped.

I heard one of them say, “Ready?”

The goon to my left side shifted down and I heard him say: “Yup.” Then I felt a sharp prick in my shoulder. “Hold him for five.”

“Help.” I had my voice back, but it wasn’t the loud shout I thought it would be, it came out as a quiet whimper. I couldn’t get enough breath behind it … my heart was still pounding in my chest. “…help … me…” It came out like a whisper … not enough air.

And then I finally inhaled. I took a deep breath, and then another. Breathing never felt so good. Had I forgotten to breathe? How can you forget to breathe? It seemed like each breath took forever, all the while I was staring up at menacing dark figures that hovered over me, pushing down on my shoulders and arms. I realized I could see my reflection in their goggles.

I took a third breath, and suddenly I felt numb. It came across me all at once. Like diving into a freezing cold swimming pool. I stopped focusing on my heartbeat and instead wondered if this was perhaps a dream. With each breath I receding, pushed deeper and deeper into the bed.

 

***

 

I thought about how I had met him … his screen name was “MrControl68” and I had started a dialog with him probably two years ago. Online, I was all about the flirting. Hitting guys up, chatting with them awhile about bondage and kink. All the while masturbating at the idea of actually hooking up with someone. I never did. As soon as I’d get off I’d log off … until the next time I was horny.

Unlike a lot of guys who eventually just ignored me, “MrControl68” — or just “Sir” as he liked to be called — always seemed willing to chat. This was despite probably a half a dozen times where I had agreed to meet him out at the bars but never showed up. Over the years I think he had actually gotten to know me pretty well. He knew what kinky things turned me on the most. He’d talk about locking me up in cages, strapping me down to his bondage bench, or restraining me for hours in a straitjacket.

Two months ago he had really wanted to finally meet, and we set something up for a bar, real close to where I live. I had almost gone, too … but at the last minute I chickened out. I just couldn’t bring myself to go.

The next time I was online he sent me a message that said he had figured out what kind of boy I was. I figured he was mad, and rightfully so. I thought that this was probably the end of our online relationship. I didn’t respond to that message, but then he followed it up with a message that said I was the kind of boy that would need to be “taken.”

That of course was a new direction for our chats, and the idea was a big turn on for me. Over the next few months we chatted about it frequently, about him coming in the night and taking me. He had described it in detail. How he had a group of men who could and would do it. How I wouldn’t have a choice, when the time came. I had fantasized and beat off to it frequently.

 

***

 

“He’s ready.”

In a flash, the men had moved off of me, the weight on my limbs that I had forgotten was there was lifted, but I couldn’t move. I was relaxed … no, I was more than relaxed, I was stoned … I stared blankly at the ceiling.

Then he was there, towering above me. He had a grey uniform shirt and a black leather biker’s jacket. His bearded face smiled down at me. “So we finally meet,” he said. His face was rugged and kind, his profile photo didn’t do it justice.

Why hadn’t I just gone to meet him? All those years, he seemed like a nice fellow … but I hadn’t, and now, I lay here, unable to respond.

“We’ll talk later. For now, my boys will take you to my dungeon for some much needed R&R.”

Then he was gone and I was staring up at the ceiling again. The men returned, and I was suddenly being stuffed into a large canvas bag. I watched them do it, as if I was a bystander. They lifted my body and dropped it into the bag like I was nothing, as if I weighed nothing at all. I regretted wearing those ratty old boxer briefs to bed … but how could I have known? Then they zipped up the bag and I was plunged into darkness.

I must have fallen asleep after that. I don’t remember the journey, or how I got out of that huge black duffle bag. When I woke up I was in a warm place. I could detect light, but I couldn’t see anything. My face and head was covered with some sort of soft and snug canvas material. There was something in my mouth … a gag! I couldn’t push it out … I was forced to suck on it like a pacifier. My arms were affixed across my chest, hugging myself. It took me a moment to realize I must be in a straitjacket. I tugged and pulled my arms. It was secure, but not so tight that it was uncomfortable. My legs were bare, I tried to scoot around. I was in a cell of some kind, there were cold metal bars to my left and a solid wall to my right.

Then I remembered conversations we had had, about straitjackets and cages. I had often said that it was my ultimate fantasy … to be strapped in a straitjacket and locked in a cage. He had told me he had both, and would be happy for me to try them out. How many times had I masturbated to that fantasy?

I pushed myself up against the wall. I try to say something, but all that would come out around the gag was a muffled murmur. I sat quietly, listening. I could hear absolutely nothing. I tried to call out again, but there was no response.

I sat there, wondering what time it was, how long I had been there. How much longer I would be there.

He had done exactly what he said he was going to do. He had taken me.

But how long would he keep me?

 

 

Metal would like to thank Strappeddown for letting me share this story, one of many he has banged out on his Tumblr page.

You can also find Strappeddown on Recon.